Edinburgh

There are things that stand out in my mind, a quick memory that jumps to another, a smell, the feeling of a particular fabric on your skin.

My first trip overseas was to the United Kingdom. It was 1986/1987 and my college roommate was student teaching in England. She asked me to meet her there and then we would travel together for winter break and afterwards return to school together.

It came at a perfect time, that if any one thing had been different, I would have turned her down. Luckily for me the stars were aligned in my favor, and the trip literally changed much of my life.

She asked me what I wanted on the itinerary, and I believe my response was: Stonehenge and a Castle. Everything else was her choice. I didn’t care as long as I got to see Stonehenge and a Castle.

There is much to tell that happened during these almost-three weeks, but when I put my request for a prompt and I limited it to seven choices, and People: Edinburgh was chosen.

We barely spent any time in Edinburgh, but it truly was the people who stand out in my memory.

For one thing, I’m weak-kneed for a Scottish accent. And bagpipes…… Completely unrelated, but I visited a Gettysburg battlefield at the same time as Bike Week and one of the riders got off his Harley and started playing the bagpipes. It was one of the most moving feelings I have ever experienced. The memory still manages to choke me up. Sorry for the digression.

I’ve always been a tremendous fan of Scotland and the Celtic people.

In the summer before the trip, we both (my roommate and I) worked at a camp that had an entire group of British exchange students, and one of them was Clive A. Clive was the canoe specialist and he and I embarrassingly started a food fight in the dining hall. It was disgusting and we both got in serious trouble and I couldn’t drink orange juice for almost a year afterwards, but it was one of our bonding moments. And I was one of three people who could understand him through his thick Scottish accent.

Our trip from Pitlochry to Edinburgh was somewhat eventful, although not as eventful as Edinburgh to London, but still. The snow had begun falling before we got on the train, and once we’d arrived in York, the snow turned to mush in a country that didn’t know what to do with mush. Trains were delayed, but eventually we made it into the city to meet up with Clive.

On our way, we ran into an Aussie fellow we met on the train in Wales.

This was January and so the hostellers were a small group. We didn’t run into the same people, but we did meet a couple, stay a bit, change hostels with them, meet a couple more and then trade. It was neat. We met Peter in Bangor, went our separate ways. Actually we were ion the same train. At Perth, we went on to Pitlochry and he changed for Aberdeen. I was indeed surprised to find him later on that evening in Pitlochry, and the next morning he came with us to Edinburgh.

The Scottish hostels were a bit different than the English and the Welsh ones we’d been used to up until now. For one thing, the Scottish curfew was 2am rather than eleven or midnight. Scottish hostels also did not provide silverware; you were supposed to carry your own, and we did not know that. They were kind enough to let us borrow. Also in Scotland, we, as women, were not automatically served a half-pint like we were in England and Wales. In Scotland, we got a full pint, and for me who didn’t drink that much, but soon discovered the wonder that is hard cider didn’t really pay attention to the size of the glass other than to be marveled that I was given a pint in Scotland. It was very exciting.

Not to mention that by this time the drinking age in NY was 21 (raised on my birthday, the bastards!), so my first legal drink was received in the UK.

Clive took us to three places, but the only one I remember the name of was Preservation Hall. He’d said it was named for the one in New Orleans. *shrug* I didn’t know. He and my roommate seemed to be in charge and that was fine for Peter and me. We tagged along like wayward puppies, following as Clive searched streets for a working ATM. They weren’t on every street corner in 1987, and it took a little time for him to get some cash.

We laughed and talked and drank and three and a half pints later we stumbled out.

The next thing I knew Peter and I were put on the taxi queue, given an address to get us back to the hostel before the curfew and my roommate and friend left me there.

We stood for a moment or two and decided we could find our way back before curfew, and we didn’t need to pay for a taxi. Thinking back, that was probably one of the stupidest things I’ve done. I met this guy three or so days earlier and so we wandered down the streets.

By now it was snowing, and Peter, being from Australia had never seen snow, but this wasn’t just any kind of snow I told him; this was fairy snow. The kind that lightly dusted your hair, and sparkled in the lamplight. We sat on a snow covered bench beneath the Edinburgh Castle that was lit up for the evening and watched the magical snow glitter and glimmer, twinkling in competition with the stars against the blackness of the Scottish sky, the only light one or two lamps and the castle far above us.

It was sweet and cozy as we walked hand in hand, stumbling down one street and then another, not even knowing what we were missing by not having a cell phone or a nav system, but we made it.

Right before curfew. We came in as the warden was about to lock up, although he was kind enough to ask about my other friend, and I said she wouldn’t be back.

We found a warm spot next to a crackling fireplace and left drips where the snow melted off our woolens, our hair spraying water on each other like a dog might when he comes in from the rain.

Peter and I stayed up most of the night in case my roommate needed us to open the door for her, but he was right about that being futile and I didn’t see her until the morning when she woke me for the train back to London.

Peter and I said goodbye until our pen pal letters started up once he was home and that lasted several years.

A two hour delay, sitting on a moving train car that was only moving for me and my hangover, a crick in my neck from how I fell asleep on my rucksack, wondering why we weren’t in London, an amusing conductor who was much funnier than he should have been sober and snow, snow, snow, and wondering if we’d even get back to the United States because flights were being cancelled left and right.

Finally, we were heading to London, but we weren’t able to sit together. I ended up with a man named Kevin. Scottish, but he needed to show up at the military something in London to check in and then turn around and go home. Didn’t make much sense to me, but we had a nice chat the entire way to London. He was short and had very small hands, and I’m not sure why that stands out in my mind. We also talked about the Scottish money – the pound note, well all of them that doesn’t have a picture of the Queen on them. There was a shortened history lesson of Scotland, and my roommate and I were back in Bishop’s Stortford hoping to get on the plane the next morning, and Kevin and Peter were just happy memories.

Fucking Roundabouts

We recently got a roundabout in town. It took the place of a traffic light that created more trouble than it was worth. The roundabout really helps. Unfortunately, a lot of people don’t know how to use it. It’s a one lane circle with four exits. That whole yield to traffic in the circle thing has them baffled.

Let me tell you a thing, townsfolks – this is the easiest traffic circle, roundabout, devil’s trap you will ever find anywhere in the world. It’s well lit, signs are posted, it is now literally the easiest intersection I have ever encountered.

As some of you remember, a few years ago I went to Wales, and I spent a week driving there. Having never driven on the left side of the road was bad enough, but the fucking roundabouts! Holy mother of Satan! I should warn you now for language. There is no language that is off limits in describing the Welsh roundabout.

It’s a rural country, Wales is. I almost never had a car behind me or was in any traffic to speak of. Unless of course, you are in a roundabout. Then, every fucking driver and his brother are so close up your arse that they should buy you dinner first.

There was one roundabout, just to interrupt; they call them roundabouts. Sounds civilized, doesn’t it? Much like the Scottish version of ‘hills’ which are really fucking mountains. (Look up Craigower Hill if you don’t believe me.) Cunting roundabouts! Traffic circles from Hell! This is no exaggeration. Driving in Hell would not be this bad, and that includes not having air conditioning down there.

As I was saying, there was this one roundabout; one of many really, but this one really stands out. Plenty of traffic; of course I’m the only one who doesn’t know what they’re doing.

First, you enter the roundabout when there’s a lull. There is no fucking lull. It is four lanes of fucking no lull. But wait, there’s more to ‘first’ than meets the eye. When you enter, you of course, enter to the left. The steering wheel is on the right side of the car and you enter from the left when there is a lull.

Good fucking luck.

You enter the circle and you look for your exit.

This fucking roundabout – did I mention that it has four fucking lanes?! This fucking roundabout has signs, but they’re useless. I don’t even see how native Welsh drivers can understand them.

All signs are in both Welsh and English. This isn’t a problem, but one example I’ll share that I ran into more than once is ‘men working’ in Welsh is something like five words. Construction ahead took two signs and that was just for the Welsh portion.

These signs for the circle, in the circle: do they say: Bangor, 10 miles with an arrow pointing the way? No, of course they don’t. They say something ridiculous like A4 with an arrow.

A4?!

Fucking cuntswallop! Is this Bingo?! I didn’t get my Bingo card when I entered the roundabout – who do I see about that?

So I go around again, hoping that the car riding my arse isn’t going to hit me even though I’m going twice the speed limit since I still don’t know if it’s miles or kilometers and I’m hoping for the best. (It’s miles by the way.)

There is a sign detailing all of the exits. There are seven spokes to this roundabout. SEVEN!

Four of them say Bangor. Bangor is about the size of Central Park. Alright, maybe that’s a slight under-estimate, but it’s a smallish college town with basically one road through the whole of it.

Now, the fun begins.

To exit, you need the left most lane. Or do you? When you exit, you are exiting from this four lane monstrosity to a two-way, two-lane, no yellow lines, bordered by ancient or at least medieval stone walls that barely give your side view mirror room to scrape by.

And scrape by I did now and again.

To digress, on a one way street, it’s even worse. And that’s assuming you’re driving the right way; you never know with the GPS piece of conCRAPtion. Modern compact BMW versus thousand year old wall? Scrape the wall. After a thousand years, that wall isn’t coming down. Trust me. Besides if I don’t scrape that wall, I scrape the church on the other side. St. Mary’s. Also about a thousand years old.

And now back to our regularly scheduled rant. Now you hope that this is the only roundabout, but it’s not likely. They like a series of them to keep you on your toes. I think it’s a Darwin test – survival of the fittest. Or the luckiest.

Roundabouts are the reason there’s a church on every corner. If you’re not praying while you’re driving, you’re clearly not stressed enough. Most of my time behind the steering wheel included my white knuckled clutching until the final stop when I could barely uncurl my fingers and heaved a sigh of relief that I was still in one piece.

Often I would burst into tears upon stopping simply at the thought of having to go back the same way, but there was also the release of tension with the tears. And then a deep breath.

For about three weeks when I got back, I needed a sedative to be a passenger in a car that went through a roundabout.

Roundabouts are the devil’s spawn.

2013 in Review – 2014 in Preview

2013 Year in Review

Most years are a mix of good and bad and 2013 was no exception.

I didn’t accomplish all of my goals, and while that was my lack of focus there were also extenuating circumstances. For the most part, my depression and anxiety were under control and when they weren’t I usually had the presence of mind to remove myself from the situation or recognize enough to grab my phone and sort it out with my friends.

Our biggest ‘bad’ was in June; my mother in law was hit by a car. We weren’t sure she was going to make it, but she made remarkable progress and was released from the hospital the week before Thanksgiving.

During our visit in the summer, I was triggered by the nursing/rehab facility. It was very unexpected for me. Things bother me but never to the extent of triggering in this way. Because of the circumstances I couldn’t talk to my husband about what was going on with my reactions, but I was very lucky that I had friends visiting NYC (which is close to my MIL’s town) and I was able to take a quick (ish) train ride into Manhattan and spend about twelve hours with people who were able to distract me enough and talk enough and hug enough to put the trigger reactions aside for the rest of our visit.

We also put our finances in the ‘bad’ column, but I won’t get into details of that here. That is one of the subjects that I will be talking about in January as part of my writing.

Speaking of writing, I actually did quite a bit of it in 2013. I didn’t expect to take any trips and planned out physical retreats as well as online retreats. I didn’t do as well as I would have liked, but that just gives me something to work on in 2014. It wasn’t disappointing enough to knock me down and discourage me, but it wasn’t good enough and that might be enough of a motivating factor.

I made two writing retreats for myself. I’d put the kids on the bus, go to Mass, and then disappear until 3:30 or so. I also included an online retreat from Days of Deepening Friendship, a website that includes writing and faith. In December they had an Advent Retreat. I didn’t do as much for this as I would have liked, but I did follow the Thursday topics and made lists rather than write prose.

December winded up being so busy that I wrote 0 words, but more than made up for that in November.

I started keeping track in May, and for 2013, I had a total word count of 171,920. The topics I wrote about included: Fandom – Harry Potter, Daydverse, Supernatural, the actors, some Fan Fic, two Memoir workshops, Money, religious/spiritual, travel, random prompts, tea, politics, mental health as well as writing a lot about the summer of Misha – GISHWHES, Random Acts and Endure4Kindness (an eleven hour writing marathon for charity).

Not including December which I’ve said was 0 words, my lowest month was October (2397) and my largest month was November (16, 777).

I’ve talked a lot about attending Catholic Mass, and that continued throughout 2013. I enjoyed (and still do) attending Mass and seeing how the readings helped and spoke to my daily life. I am still sometimes amazed that something written so long ago and the passages chosen by someone a couple of years ago to be read are still so relevant to specific things in my life.

I have been attending the RCIA (Rite of Catholic Initiation for Adults) to receive my sacraments at Easter and become a member of the Catholic Church. I’m excited by this and I really like learning the history and the rituals. What I’ve found most interesting is that everything I’m hearing and learning validates things I’ve always thought about the spiritual world my whole life. It tells me that this is the path I’m supposed to be on because it’s always been in my head; I just didn’t know what it meant.

Fandom events included the season finale (season 8) and the season premiere (season 9) of Supernatural, the 50th Anniversary Special of Doctor Who as well as the Christmas special with the regeneration and introduction to new Doctor, Peter Capaldi. (Really looking forward to Easter!)

I took two trips to Virginia (one by train which I’d love to repeat), thanks to my best friend and met some really awesome people who will be in my life forever.

As family, we took two trips to visit our family (in the summer and Thanksgiving) and my sister-in-law came to see us for a couple of hours during the Christmas holiday.

As I said, it was the summer of Misha (Collins) – GISHWHES, Random Actopolypse, then Endure4Kindness in November. I have grown very fond of Random Acts as a charitable organization, and all of my ‘extra’ change either went to them or to my church.

I anticipate repeating much of these activities in the next year, especially the new traditions of writing retreats and Random Acts activities.

And now, for 2014! What will my focus be on in 2014? How will I be motivated for the next year?

You may have seen some of this in my daily 365 posts, so I do apologize for anything that’s redundant.

In 2013, I had three New Years and I’ve just begun this one. Half of you just went, Three?!

Jan. 1, 2013
Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year
Advent, Dec. 1, 2013 – the start of the Liturgical Calendar

I’ve always made my resolutions for Rosh Hashanah. There is a built in assessment at the end of December, and then I can reassess and add or subtract goals based on what’s been working and what else I want to try out.

The only thing that seemed to work this year, though, was November. Random Acts’ E4K (Endure 4 Kindness) set me up to succeed and my writing workshops reinforced it, but before and after I kind of floundered.

I’m hoping to do better this year (and I think I’m off to a pretty good start). If we’ve nothing to strive for, what is even the point? No one is perfect, least of all me, there is always one more goal to meet, one more goal to set as long as the world goes round and round.

One of the central themes of my life this past year has been Mental Health issues. I was diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety in 2012 and it took nearly all of that year to get the medicine right and become more in recovery and less floundering like a fish on the dock. 2013 was a better year for paying attention to relapses, to successes, to triggers and to coping and I did a lot of talking about it. I found that I could give advice when asked and I could even take some, so that will be one of my writing subjects for 2014.

The second will be Religion and Spirituality and how mind has evolved and changed, how it’s helped me and given me new insights, not only to myself, but to foreign things I thought as a child and young adult that now make more sense with this new context.
Third, finances. Advice, bankruptcy, home buying, not sure where this will go. I’ve tried to write about the disaster that is our home buying experience at least a dozen times, but every time I do, I break down in tears. Maybe this is the year I get through it, at least a first draft of it.

Of course, I’ll throw in parenting and fandom and travel because at heart I’m a babbler, so let’s see where 2014 will bring will bring us and my writing.

Happy New Year.

Sherlock and Stewardesses

I’m looking at yesterday’s 365 post and I’m postponing the dusting. This morning’s chores took longer than I thought they would. First, it’s freezing. Unbelievably freezing. I went to Mass, got the few pics printed at CVS for my journal, got some groceries and cupcakes to deliver to my daughter at school, then home for breakfast. How exciting, right?

Looking at my list, and I’m thinking it’s a good thing I put a to-do list in that post so I have a road map. I’m not feeling particularly motivated other than motivated to keep reading The Jet Sex.

But that is my reward once I get through my list.

Jar done. *high five*

Time to shut down the computer and work on my green notebook. (Yeah, sorry, this post seems to be a blow-by-blow and I’ll hit post at the end for #7).

So I feel asleep – um….intentionally took a nap.

Actually, I watched A Study in Pink – first time. I could feel myself grinning at Sherlock and John’s chemistry. I really liked it. At least, I’ll be able to catch up easy enough. Second episode tomorrow when the kids go to school.

I’ve organized the green notebook. There are ten sections: Notes, Content Calendar, Ongoing Business, (a section for an event I’m part of), Fandom, Depression – Mental Health, Spirituality – Faith &
Religion, House – Buying & Maintenance (the experience and pitfalls, not the daily journaling about my household crap), and Money, Matters (mostly my personal money issues).

My next big original post will be about my financial difficulties. I know our situation is not unique, and sometimes we can help each other (not just in a monetary way). We do have a Go Fund page, and for anyone who’s followed our specific problems, I will have an update and a link.

I will also post my first piece of writing from my Endure 4 Kindness back in November. I didn’t get any pledges (hopefully, this will improve for next year’s event), but I pledged myself a single donation for the day ($15). The donations benefit the Random Acts organization. I have mentioned them before and I will link them in a future post. They are very worthy of your time and your money. There is no amount too small. Every little bit helps.

Currently, we are making dinner and I’ll be typing up the quick short things that I wrote during Advent.

After that, I will take some time with my new journal and then more of Vicki Vantoch’s book. She has a wonderful writing style; I’m sure that I will be sharing more about this book as I read it. When I read her dissertation, it brought back my own memories of wanting to be a stewardess once I realized that I couldn’t be a pilot. I was an enormous fan of Amelia Earhart’s and flying was a new thing. I remember a trip I took with my Dad to Toronto. I can picture my little white jacket and a patent leather white purse with one of those change purse clasp things to close it. I’m pretty sure that the hat I’m picturing on my messy head is a projection of the times; I don’t believe I ever had a fancy travel hat.

Whenever I’m asked what I wanted to be growing up, I could never remember. My parents worked for the post office and that was something I used to think about as well as for the police department in some capacity or a private eye like Jim Rockford, but somewhere in my latent memories was being a stewardess and flying. Today I am more afraid to fly than not, but I wasn’t afraid as a child. I was enthralled by the glamour that followed that job around. I can picture a blue dress and a matching nurse’s style cap, a small, triangular purse. I had wings from that first trip, which are since lost and we had a blue tote bag with a shoulder strap that said Pan Am on the side. It had two large pockets and zippers and since then (and probably before) I have a fondness for all kinds of bags, wallets, purses, and travel things.

But I digress.

The Grave Site of President Chester A. Arthur

I recently took a drive out to the Albany Rural Cemetery outside of the New York State capital of Albany to visit the gravesite of President Chester A. Arthur, the 21st President of the United States. The cemetery is much larger than it appears upon driving through the gates. I’m told that the cemetery itself is 400 acres and I found it to be one of the more peaceful places I’ve been to. It is spaced in a rolling way with hills and winding dirt/gravel narrow roads, large and small headstones and monuments, mid-19th century (some from before that had been moved there) to modern era as well as above ground burial areas. There is an abundance of nature with trees and creeks with natural stone walls, deep wooded areas and cool shaded spaces with benches and statuary. It felt a bit like some of the Gettysburg cemeteries for anyone that’s visited them, but I only felt the peacefulness rather than the spirits and ghost-like feelings reaching out that I feel in the Battlefields and Cemeteries of Gettysburg.

This cemetery began with 100 acres in 1841, and had its first burial in 1845, although some graves are from before that having moved from their original site at Washington Park. It is an active cemetery, and other than very famous names, I recognized my former Congressman’s father.

When I arrived at the President’s grave site, there was a groundskeeper trimming the grass. He chuckled and said to me, “My boss was right. Always weed whack over here first.” He then moved off so that I could get pictures. For all of the visitors you would think they get, there are no signs pointing the way. I did see one about the size of an interstate shield sign, but other than that, nothing. I ran into a jogger with her dog, and I asked her for directions to the President. She was not surprised that I could not find it on my own.

Below is the Arthur family plot.

Behind the monument with the angel and Presidential Seal is the actual grave where President Arthur is buried alongside his wife.

It took me three tries to get the flag to wave just right behind the angel’s wings.

I also have an affinity for taking pictures of things with a tree in the foreground.

Some more photos from my day. The next two were where I happened upon the jogger. I saw a stone wall and flowing water and I needed to stop and get out of my car. I was really glad I did.

This stone was under a copse of trees. There’s a stone wall layered behind it, the topiary plus a few statuary pieces. This person really liked frogs apparently. The bench right across from this has that little stone path and is under its own tree; it is also missing the seat. I can imagine that this person’s spouse or parent would come to sit and visit. Sometimes, I wish that there was a bench by my parents’ graves; something that my mother wanted to put in had she lived longer to visit my Dad.

These last two are good examples of unexpected angles. Stand in just the right spot and it gives way to gobs of creativity and writing prompts. There is so much in the simplest photograph.

Colonial Williamsburg

These are some of my photos from my recent trip to Williamsburg, Virginia. I spent the day on my own, so I have a lot of photos of buildings and the re-enactors as well as the gardens and horses. I will write more about it, but it truly was a fabulous day with perfect weather. The one thing I would change would be to pay attention to the schedule. I didn’t buy a ticket, and therefore wasn’t allowed into the historic end by the Capitol since there was a performance. If I had realized I would have started at that end, and been gone before they closed it to non-ticket holders.

Inside the Bindery

Governor’s Palace at Colonial Williamsburg

Gardens

Burton Parish Episcopal Church

Horse and Pasture

The Courthouse

The Courthouse. To the left is a cider stand. To the right, barely in view are the stocks

Market Center

Two women play traditional Colonial games at the market

The Capitol

The Town Crier…..on a Segway

Sitting in front of the tavern

Horse and Wagon

The Armoury

at Colonial Williamsburg

Bus stop in front of the Historic Information Booth, across from Merchant Square

Behind the Information Booth

Security: Not as Easy as it Appears on TV

Mt. Snowdon, Llanberis, North Wales

In Tickets, Please! I hinted at other stories from my past, and thought I would take some of my journal entries and my old Live Journal and include them here. Some of them are not so dated that they are not relevant any longer.

Prior to my most recent trip to Wales in 2009, the only other times that I’ve flown were when I was five (with my Dad to Canada, and I can picture my cute little outfit and pocketbook) and when I was twenty (to meet my college roommate who was student teaching in the UK). Obviously, both of these occurred before 9/11 and security was definitely not the same then as it is now.

In fact, for the overseas trip in 1986, I carried a paper bag of wrapped Christmas presents for my friend that sat on my lap the entire time because it would not fit in the overhead compartment. I’m pretty sure this would be frowned upon nowadays.

So, to recap, I’ve flown in 1970 or 1971, 1986 and then again in 2009.

Not a very good track record of airline travel.

I may have also mentioned in previous postings here that I am very anxious. At the time of the 2009 trip, I had not been diagnosed with depression or an anxiety disorder and just put it off to the normal anxiety of traveling alone and the lack of experience. I can tell you that while I was still nervous (and still undiagnosed) in 2011, it was still a much better experience as far as my anxiety levels, and my recent train trip had almost no anxiety at all. All of those stories will eventually come if you stick around long enough.

Wales, 2009: The lesson in how not to go through security.

Three times.

I honestly thought I was prepared. I like to be prepared. If I am nothing, I am prepared. I usually have the extra diaper, the napkins or pack of tissues, the spare change; so when I was planning my trip to Wales, I did not want to wait until the last minute to get British pounds or wait until I had arrived in Manchester.

I also did not want to wait until my departure from Newark Airport, which I pictured as a large foreboding place and where I’d be sitting alone for hours on end and everyone would know that I had money and I would be mugged. Or some other crazy scenario that never happens but everyone still thinks does.

I do think of everything.

Our local airport is big enough – they call it an international airport after all, although I don’t believe that I could fly overseas directly from here. I planned on popping in to buy British currency. The procedure is simple. You make an appointment, go to the information office, show them your passport, they give you a pass, you then go through security with your pass and your passport, and go to the business office to exchange (they call it buying) your currency.

Okay, no problem.

I do all that, and there’s a really long line for security. That’s okay though. It gives me time to get acclimated and get used to the procedure as I watch other people going through. I listen to the chit-chat. I reach into my oversized bag and feel around for Bob. (If you haven’t met Bob yet, he is my talisman, and he will make occasional appearances on my site.)

He’s there.

I feel safe.

I get to the front of the line, and I will have to recount about the elderly woman in the wheelchair with her identification problems at another time. After her, it’s my turn, and I hand the TSA officer my passport, and there’s this long pause.

Well, it wasn’t that long, but it felt like forever and I couldn’t figure out why. He informed me that the passport isn’t signed, and I think I said something like, “What do you mean?”

Apparently, you are supposed to sign your passport when you get it.

Laugh if you want, but I did not know that.

I thought they came like your driver’s license – already signed, but no, they don’t.

I was so embarrassed. I was lucky a manager was there and I had to sign it in front of them, show my driver’s license, get the manager’s approval, and then they let me in.

Bob was embarrassed by me too. It probably won’t be the first time.

Then it’s time to grab a bin, take off your shoes and put them and your liquids, jacket, purse into the bin. Or two bins. The woman ahead of me had three bins plus her luggage. Go through the metal detector and then you re-dress. Just to add that if you’re a man, you’ll need to also take off your belt.

They do not care that I’m not getting on a flight. If I’m going into the secure area, I need to go through security just like everyone else. I also needed the pass because I did not have a ticket, which is also required.

(At this time (and in 2011), they only had the traditional metal detectors; not the back scatter machines).

Okay, so now I’m through and I get my currency, which is cool, and I leave. No worries. I’m ready now for the next trip through security, which will be when I’m actually flying out.

Security, Take Two.

Newark is a bit crazier than our local airport. It’s bigger. It’s enormously bigger. The parking is color-coded. It’s expensive. My husband and kids leave me at the really long line to check my bag, and this is where I meet a lovely Scottish couple heading home to Edinburgh. We chat, we check our bags, we leave our bags in a corral where anyone can take them, but alas, that is a different story that I may or may not get to later on.

I’m looking for security now. Once I’m through security, even though I’m two hours early (the recommended time for international flights), I want to get through security and then pretend to relax. They have shops and a place to buy drinks and bathrooms on the other side of security. It’s really like a whole other world and I’m kind of looking forward to that part of this adventure. After all, eating and shopping isn’t anxiety laden like going through a metal detector.

I know I’m ready for security this time. I grab my bin. I take off my shoes. I very knowledgably explain to the German lady behind me about the shoes and the jacket, which I’ve laid under my bag in the bin. I give a quick look to Bob and send him and my other bags through.

As soon as I heard it, I knew it was me.

“Bag check.”

My heart began to race, and my mind was repeating over and over again, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, the laptop.”

I not only left the laptop in the bag (they must be taken out and put in a separate bin), but I also forgot the bag of liquids in the carry-on. Bob was the least of my problems, although I’m sure that after the nonsense that was the laptop/liquids, Bob would have kept me off the plane.

I apologized. I got eye-rolls times two. I did feel bad, but they really should be more instructional. I’m a first time flyer for all practical purposes, and I was in the first time flyer lane, but apparently those lane distinctions don’t really mean anything. I get through, but my heart is still racing, and believe it or not, the first thing I did was slip Bob in my pocket and then tie my shoes.

Security, Take Three.

At the end of my trip, upon leaving Manchester Airport, I, of course, went through security. This time, I was determined to be successful. I had put all of my liquids in the checked bag, and this bag did not go into the corral available to any passer-by. All I had was toothpaste in the plastic baggie in my carry-on. I remembered the laptop and even had the carry-on partially unzipped so that I would remember to remove it from the bag. I had asked the first security person if we’re supposed to take our shoes off, and they said no. I threw away my bottle of soda (500ml – too large to carry through.) I was home-free. The man asked for my passport. No problem. I put everything in the bins. I walked through the detector, and…

Beep.

Oh, no, I didn’t.

I looked at the security woman, mouth agape, thinking, “What did I do to deserve this?”

They move me just slightly out of the way, ask me to put my arms out (like a cross) and then a woman security officer starts patting me down. (Wasn’t I put behind a screen? No, I was not. She didn’t even say anything except to extend my arms. She really should have bought me drinks.) I was lucky I didn’t take a step back in startlement. I also now need to take off my shoes and they pass through a separate scanner. That was it really. I think it was actually my passport that set it off – all that new technology crammed into that little book. I hadn’t carried it through any of the other metal detectors. I always replaced it into my purse when it was returned to me.

Now I know for my next trip, I will either sail through or be arrested and my best friend will have to rescue me from a federal prison.

You will rescue me, won’t you?

Here are some hints that I discovered, and not just because of my mistakes.

1. Keep your pockets empty, including money and change. It’s just easier to get through security and then put that stuff into your pockets or just leave it in your pocketbook or briefcase.

2. Know that in the US, you’ll need to remove your jacket, shoes and belts.

3. Don’t wear clunky, metallic jewelry unless you really do want to get friendly with the security officers. Going, I had a really nice necklace, but I put it in my purse until I was through and then I put it on my neck.

4. Put your ID/passport away in your purse before you walk through the metal detector. There is also a detector that blows air on you. I did not go through that one (by choice).

5. Your laptop needs to be out of your bag and in its own bin (apart from your shoes and purse, etc.)

6. Your purse goes in a bin. Your carry-on does not.

7. The liquids need to be in a bin (with your other stuff except your laptop.) The TSA in the US allow 3 ounce containers inside a quart sized zipper bag. I found Ziploc brand travel bags. I think they were $0.99 for seven bags. I was also surprised by the amount of little bottles that fit in there. On the way over, my liquid bag was filled with things I would normally keep in my purse. Liquid, for TSA purposes includes gels and creams as well as solids (like deodorant) in addition to actual liquids. It’s 3-1-1. 3.4 ounce containers, 1 quart bag, 1 bag per passenger. I found the TSA website to be very useful.

8. The UK requirement to return is slightly less, so check with the airport security or online for the place you’ll be leaving from, or check your liquids in your suitcase.

9. Do not joke in the line. It annoys people, and you really don’t want to annoy security.

If I think of anything else, I’ll be sure to add it with another posting.

Traveling, Friending, Writing

After seven hours on the train and a five hour layover in Penn Station, I got home just in time for the phone conference with my middle son’s teacher and my oldest son’s prom and I’m still not quite recovered from three and a half days away. I really do believe that for any vacation taken, you should be given an equal amount of time afterwards to recover from your vacation.

It’s going to take me the better part of next week to catch up on my sleep and unpack; I never unpack in a timely manner. I have to figure out how much money is left in the bank since I went away alone and at home, my husband continued to use our checking account, so I don’t know how that’s going to reconcile but must before I can pay the bills.

I went to visit my best friend, attend a fandom party for the Supernatural finale, met some Tumblr friends and got to wander around a recreated historical town as well as play around in the kitchen, meet the parents, see the gardens and taste things.

Because of such variety, hopefully I will have one or more postings to share with you. This kind of trip was really nice, especially for a writer. It’s as though I was on four or five separate trips and therefore it’s given me many prompts and inspirations as story starters:

1. Visiting friend

2. Fandom Finale Party

3. Touristy things

4. Traveling alone

5. Train travel

6. Food tastings

I’m not sure how many of them will see the light of day, but consider this my little brainstorm.

It was a very nice visit with normal stresses like getting ready for the party and making sure that I was entertained while he was at work, but it was truly a nice and special time for me and I think for him too.

I also managed to get the family a couple of souvenirs that were inexpensive as well as obligatory like pencils and candy for the kids and a shot glass for my husband. I collect pins so I made sure to add to my collection and was even able to replace my Welsh flag pin that broke a couple of years ago.

I think I forgot to mention that I have three pieces I need to write for workshop homework this week. There are two workshops, but three essays due, and as always I will try to post them here as well depending on how far they go into the personal realm. Without promising, I would also like to post daily since I do have so many ideas I’d like to write about from the trip and I’ve continued to collect prompts that I will use all through the summer until the next workshop starts up in the fall.

Tomorrow after Mass, reading the mail, making a school related phone call and two personal related phone calls, I will post something even if it’s a short something.

I’m looking forward to seeing you then.

Tickets, Please!

In a couple of weeks I’m taking a trip, kind of spontaneously, and I’m a little nervous, but I’m trying to look at it as an adventure. I don’t have many of those.

I travel very rarely. As a kid, my family took yearly, sometimes twice yearly vacations. I went with my college roommate to the UK in 1987; alone to North Wales in 2009; to visit friends in Denver in 2011. As an adult, three trips in three decades are not very much.

I’d like to travel more, but money is certainly one issue. I’ve also only recently begun to enjoy some of my own time alone. I always hated the aloneness, but I started taking random ‘field trips’ and where once I thought eating alone in a restaurant was sad and lonely, I kind of like it now. I have time to think. I have space to write. And lunch in an actual restaurant is about the same price as going to McDonald’s or getting an actual meal at Starbucks without the noisy, bustling background. I also like libraries and parks with trees, but that’s me.

I am also a very nervous traveler. I couldn’t get on the last two airplanes without a special talisman to calm my nerves (as well as a prescription pharmaceutical). I travel so seldom that it churns up my stomach and I hate all of the things you need to do for travel with the packing, security, where to put my bags once I get onboard, who will I sit with and a million other anxieties tied up into what amounts to a fifteen minute procedure.

This upcoming trip is by train, and I’m excited (mostly); I haven’t been on a train since my first trip to the UK on BritRail. This journey will be twelve hours between onboard and changing trains in NYC with just enough time to buy breakfast. Is it wrong that I am really, really looking forward to a real NY egg bagel with cream cheese? On the way back, I’m hoping for a knishe. Oh, it’s been too long! And of course, another fifteen hours back including a five hour layover.

I always feel that I need to bring everything but the kitchen sink just in case. What if I need X, Y or Z? When I travel by air, I have the need to buy a bottle of water and a Time magazine. I’m not sure why that is and I don’t know if that little ritual will hold up for Amtrak. I should be able to bring my own water and save three dollars. I always bring a snack that I almost never eat and my journal which was missing for a while. This trip, I also have the luxury of a Kindle Fire, which will most certainly be welcome.

Although after much searching, I’ve finally found my special journal that’s gone with me to Wales and Denver, been to Tea Tastings when I was notating the experience, and my Fall Writing Retreat both in 2012. I will be sad when this journal is all full. I should have enough pages for this trip, possibly one more, but no guarantee of that.

The main reason for this trip is friendship with a side of fandom. I was supposed to visit my best friend before the summer, but that fell through so when he suggested coming for the fandom party/dinner/viewing of the finale of this season’s Supernatural, I rearranged my schedule to be there. There will be good friends, committed fans, good food and of course, the finale.

I haven’t done one of these types of things since the days of Star Trek: The Next Generation, possibly Deep Space Nine. Yes, my family does make a big deal of Doctor Who night and my son got the dinner he begged for: fish fingers and custard, and our weekend schedule does revolve around Green Lantern: The Animated Series, and this weekend is Free Comic Book Day, but I haven’t been to a convention (maybe soon, though – *crosses fingers*) in about a decade. For the weekly watching of Star Trek, we would head to our friend’s house and we would get chicken parm heros and drink soda and eat ice cream and laugh loudly and cheer and gape at the wonder of the Enterprise and her crew.

Now, it is a new group, a new fandom, very Supernatural-type Americana/diner food and I’m excited for it. Apart from my best friend, I have not met anyone who will be there. To begin a friendship with a base already in place is one of the wonderful things about fandom. Hey, I know your name, and we like this thing and yes, I think we can be friends, pass me a chip.

There is something so brilliant about people and food and traditions that are continued by new people and while it’s different, it’s the same or at least similar, and in some cases it’s better, and it’s really comfortable. We don’t know each other, but we kind of know each other. I am a tiny bit nervous, but that’s just my personality bleeding through. It’s not at all like going to my sister’s and explaining what fan fiction is or how I know that Misha Collins’ wife just published a book on stewardesses or why I care or why I laugh harder than everyone else when a Moose shows up on the local news in someone’s swimming pool or confuse her by rattling off my own personal canon for Harry Potter.

My sister is a fan of many things, but she is not in fandom and that is sad.

The second part (or first….) of my quick trip is visiting friend; good friend. We talk often but see each other infrequently (sadly) and I’m looking forward to this very much. We only get one day together before the fannish things begin and the good thing is we are both in better places since we last saw each other and he gets to show me around his town and his animals and his space and we get to talk and talk and catch up on and store extra hugs and make more plans, and it gives me time to breathe and remember how to do that and not worry about this school thing or that financial thing and I’ll gather ideas and prompts to occupy my second ride on the rails for the trip back.

I would love to travel more; just get up and go.

This little thing has been just an introduction. I hope to have more stories about my trips, past and future wanna-be’s, things I’ve learned, things I’ve forgotten, places I want to see and things I want to do. My mind yearns to take my kids places but it also yearns to go out into the world by myself. My most recent visit to Wales was that. I traveled alone, did things that I would have refused if you asked me first and I learned how to be by myself, which is always a good thing.

We all need that time to ourselves, to find ourselves and be available to the others in our lives and that is the one thing that I want when I travel; to come back a slightly different person.

If I know, I’ll let you know who I am when I get back.

Train Derailed

(* This is something that spewed out suddenly during my workshop on Thursday while someone else was reading. My mind wouldn’t let me stop until it was written and I didn’t know what would come out of the pen until it was on the paper. It is not an assignment of blame. Just thoughts. I don’t know if this will be expanded on eventually or left as is. It’s not quite poetry, but it’s a bit more emotional and the cadence isn’t quite prose.)

My eyes hurt. I haven’t cried today, but my eyes want to. I’m not sure about my heart. I’m full of feels. Feeling melancholy. The lingering sad, inappropriate considering this week’s events of a heaviness, the lingering of something, loss of memories not to be. I was afraid to want, but I wanted so badly, needed so badly and I let myself grasp it and blow the embers keeping it warm, building the flame of expectation, of want and need I didn’t know I needed, but I did. This is strike two. You know me better than I know myself and you can’t heal me. You can’t fix me. And I want that so badly.

Griffins and Ginger Snaps

-I write, and I have a blog because of course I do-

travel